The Devil in Disguise: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  He sat down next to her, running a hand through his thick hair, then turning his gaze to hers. “Good morning.”

  Lucinda slicked her tongue over her suddenly dry lips before answering. “And good morning to you. What brings you to Hyde Park at such an early hour, Your Grace?”

  He looked tired to Lucinda, his eyes still soft from sleep and his jaw rough with hair. Something in her begged to reach out and run her gloved finger over the light beard. Would it be soft, as surely his deep black hair was, or coarse? She wouldn’t—no, couldn’t—find out.

  “What wouldn’t bring me, Lady Lucinda? The fine weather. A healthful ride. You,” he answered, resting one booted foot on the opposing knee.

  His leg now touched hers, the fitted breeches and her bright green merino riding costume all that separated their skin. Her fingers tingled and she instinctively moved to touch him. With effort, she restrained herself, clenched her fingers, and tucked her hands beneath her skirts. She offered a small smile to the duke. “I find my hands in need of warmth just now. I am chilled—that is to say, my hands are, and I fear these York gloves are doing little to help.”

  He looked slightly puzzled at Lucinda’s stammering, then understanding dawned. “Let me be of service,” he said, pulling one hand into his and then other, cupping both and gently rubbing back and forth with his own.

  This is what I get for playing with fire, Lucinda mused silently, the rhythm of his ministrations lulling her into a pleasant fog.

  “Are we quite alone?” he asked, his tone gruff but not angry.

  Lucinda sensed that she should rouse herself, but the feel of his hands on hers was overwhelming. “Yes.”

  His hands stopped and tightened around hers. “The women I choose to court are not allowed to cavort through the woods like fairies, unattended and in a state of some dishabille.”

  Now he sounded angry, the flecks of green in his eyes clouding to a deep moss. Lucinda bit her lower lip in response, her own eyes unable to hold his absorbing glance.

  Lucinda very nearly felt embarrassed and apologetic.

  Very nearly.

  Her initial response shifted into something altogether different, something akin to outrage and sheer, hot fury. She pried her hands from his and took a deep breath. “You have absolutely no right to speak to me in such a superior tone,” she ground out, her hands balling into fists.

  The duke was looking just past Lucinda’s head at the copse of trees behind them. His eyes were practically black, the pupils dilated with rage. Lucinda began to reconsider her words, though her anger at his ridiculous remark was warranted, on that whe would not budge.

  And all at once, he grabbed her by the shoulders and heaved their combined weight against the back of the bench, upending the seat until they were delivered to the soft ground below. “You impertinent, impossible woman,” he bit out, just before he pulled Lucinda to him and kissed her.

  Oh, God, this is madness, Lucinda thought, wondering whether she’d hit her head and was now imagining the duke’s surprisingly soft yet firm lips on hers, his tongue as it nimbly attacked her own, his hands as they freed her buttons, revealing her thin white habit shirt beneath.

  Lucinda’s leg hitched over his hip, confirming what she’d feared: This was not the product of a particularly nasty spill and she’d no hope of saying no, as her body clearly had other plans.

  The duke growled low into Lucinda’s mouth, obviously pleased with her counterattack. He heatedly untied the bow at her neck, then pulled his mouth from hers, his lips traveling the length of her neck before setting to work on her shirt buttons.

  Lucinda’s body pulsed with diminutive fireworks bursting into vivid colors with each button he released.

  She ran her hand through his hair, stopping at the nape to entwine a lock between her fingers. She’d intended on pushing him away, but somehow the need growing inside of her wouldn’t let her. She squeezed her eyes shut, a pleasurable sense of dizziness pushing her toward something that both thrilled and terrified her.

  “Are you quite sure that it is Sol who holds your heart entirely, my lady?”

  He moved swiftly, silently down the wooded trail. Pain stabbed his skull in a series of knife-sharp jabs. He swung his head to the right, then left to assure he was alone, and brilliant comets of light flared on the edges of his peripheral vision. He narrowed his eyes against the resulting disorientation and snarled silently as his throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow.

  He should have followed Clairemont home from the ball last night and killed him when he’d had the chance.

  How the man had sensed his presence among the park’s trees was beyond comprehension. But the duke had, looking directly at Garenne before throwing the woman to the ground. There’d barely been enough time to control his rage, to stop himself from throwing his knife directly into the bastard’s neck.

  It would be maddening to the average man, but Garenne knew himself to be exceptional. It was not his fault that Clairemont’s presence at the ball had forced the attempt. Nor was it a lack of skill that had led to the failure. Clairemont was to blame and, in time, Garenne would make him pay. But for now, he knew that all of his focus must be on the woman.

  Pressure built inside his skull, rage exacerbating the inevitable reactions brought on by frustration.

  He came across a hare, frozen with fright in the middle of the path. Garenne threw the knife with expertise, landing its tip in the animal’s left ear and pinning it to the ground.

  He walked to where the rabbit lay, wounded and terrified. He bent down to retrieve his knife with one hand, the other coming to encircle the rabbit’s neck. He squeezed hard, then flung the limp animal into the foliage.

  The pain eased and the lights impacting his vision ceased flashing. Once again, he could consider the situation dispassionately.

  “Clearly, I will require assistance. A few choice operatives should accomplish the desired goal.

  “Soon. Very soon,” he whispered to himself before making his way from the park.

  “Perhaps the blue?” Lucinda held up a length of deep-hued sapphire ribbon, the satiny end trailing from her gloved fingers. The bright blue gleamed against the rose pink bodice of her walking dress.

  Pomeroy Milliners sold the finest ribbons in the whole of London, their countless offerings varied enough to satisfy even Lady Hertford, the Prince Regent’s notoriously discriminating mistress. And while Lucinda knew full well that this particular shade of blue suited her perfectly, she welcomed the opportunity to distract Amelia from her current line of questioning.

  “Your skill at evading inquiries is impressive, but hardly a match for me. I know you too well.” Amelia slipped the ribbon from Lucinda’s fingers and returned it to the glass-topped counter case. “Now, please explain how allowing the Duke of Clairemont to court you is in any way advantageous.”

  “Shhh.” Lucinda lowered her lashes and her gaze flicked over the shop. Across the room, ladies and their maids crowded around a table where a new shipment of ribbons was decoratively displayed with a rainbow of matching gloves and lace-trimmed handkerchiefs. Their chattering filled the air, conveniently covering her murmured conversation with Amelia.

  Nearer at hand, however, the narrow-faced clerk behind the counter had sidled closer. Lucinda was sure the woman’s apparent absorption in rearranging spools of purple and blue ribbons was wholly feigned.

  Convinced the clerk had heard Amelia’s question, Lucinda smiled sweetly when the woman glanced sideways, her cheeks flushing as she met Lucinda’s gaze.

  “I believe I would like to see something in red,” Lucinda said, politely but firmly.

  She waited until the clerk had disappeared behind the heavy curtain that separated the storage area from the remainder of the shop before she answered Amelia. “How could it not be to my advantage?” she asked, turning to stroll between the tables heavily laden with ribbon. The move took them farther away from the counter and, in an excess of caution, also put mo
re space between them and the other shoppers. Gossip spread through the ton with amazing speed; Lucinda refused to aid it by being carelessly overheard.

  Amelia hurried after her, took a firm hold on the skirt of her pelisse, and tugged.

  Pulled off stride, Lucinda halted abruptly and turned to look at her friend. “Was that truly necessary?” she asked mildly.

  Amelia let out an exasperated sigh and slipped her arm through Lucinda’s, steering them toward a settee, comfortably upholstered in gold and white striped silk and situated conveniently along the opposite wall.

  “Sit,” she commanded, and waited for Lucinda to do so before settling beside her. She tugged off her right glove and touched her palm to Lucinda’s forehead. “Are you feeling well?”

  Lucinda’s swift gurgle of laughter had her glancing quickly at the crowd of ladies crowding the shop’s aisles before answering, “Yes, quite well, thank—”

  “Have you been imbibing? Running wild through the heath by the light of a full moon?” Amelia’s eyes grew rounder as she whispered, “Did the Devil himself visit you in a dream?”

  Lucinda couldn’t help herself; she tilted her head back and let out a most unladylike laugh. The trio of dower ladies examining the selection of velvet ribbon two aisles away turned as one to gape at her. The eldest frowned, her gray brows lowering over dark eyes that snapped with disapproval.

  “I beg your pardon, but my friend possesses quite an imagination and took me by surprise,” Lucinda said in apology. The older woman sniffed, but she and her companions nodded and returned to perusing the selection.

  “Amelia, what on earth would lead you to believe that any of those outrageous claims would be true?”

  The look of concern disappeared from Amelia’s face, replaced by a glint of mischief. “How else would one explain your sudden lapse in judgment? ‘How could it not be?’ ” she repeated in a gently mocking tone. “How could the duke’s courtship be advantageous to you, a woman who has always declared that marriage holds no interest for you whatso—”

  “Of all people, Amelia, you’re the one I would expect to be happy for me,” Lucinda interrupted. “Wasn’t it you who told me: ‘Your one true love is out there, just waiting for the day you’ll find him.’ ”

  Amelia rolled her eyes in response. “Of course, but I wasn’t speaking of His Grace, Lucinda.”

  “But why? He’s wealthy, handsome—”

  “And a hedonist,” Amelia continued in an urgent whisper. “Rumored to have coaxed a woman out of her clothes with merely one word. Is this your one true love?”

  “Impossible,” Lucinda balked, and then couldn’t resist adding, “Who was the woman?”

  “Lady Swindon,” Amelia answered dramatically. “And she’s only one of many.”

  Lucinda’s mind raced back to the park bench, when the duke’s lips had been on hers. He’d completely undone her in less than five minutes. Lady Swindon was clearly either weaker or wiser than she.

  “I am no Lady Swindon, as you are well aware,” Lucinda said, desperately trying to harness her thoughts before they betrayed her.

  The lanky clerk appeared through the curtained doorway and came toward them, her arms laden with ribbons in every shade of red.

  “Are you absolutely certain this is all you have?” Lucinda asked, desperate to secure their privacy once more.

  “I’ll look again, my lady,” the clerk answered before disappearing back into the storeroom.

  “Exactly my point,” Amelia shot back in a hushed tone. “You are a woman of discriminating sensibility with no inclination to take a husband. So why are you engaged in this ill-conceived association with Clairemont?”

  To disappoint Amelia was unthinkable; to lie to her, impossible. Lucinda took her friend’s hand in hers and squeezed. “If I confide in you, you must promise to tell no one, not even your husband,” she said earnestly, all amusement gone.

  “Is that quite necessary? I share my deepest, most private thoughts with John—”

  “Not even John,” Lucinda insisted.

  Amelia narrowed her eyes consideringly. “Very well. I promise. But only because I am sure you wouldn’t ask this of me were it not absolutely necessary.”

  Lucinda leaned closer until there wasn’t a hairsbreadth between their skirts on the settee. “I’ve come to an agreement with the duke regarding King Solomon’s Mine,” she whispered.

  A look of confusion clouded Amelia’s face. “What on earth does a horse have to do with you finding your one true love?”

  “Nothing, actually. I’ve not changed my opinion in regards to marriage, Amelia. I am and will always be deliriously happy for you and your John, but it simply isn’t something I want.” Lucinda paused, glancing about to ensure no one was listening. “Clairemont has acquiesced to his mother’s wishes for an heir—which requires him to find a bride.”

  Amelia sat back and absorbed this piece of the puzzle, clearly still befuddled. “Well, I’m delighted he has agreed to marry, but I fail to see how this has anything to do with the horse.”

  “We’ve come to an understanding. I allow him to court me. If, at the end of the allotted time, I’ve fallen for his innumerable charms, we marry. If not, I win King Solomon’s Mine and secure the stallion for our breeding program.”

  Amelia’s mouth curved into an O of comprehension as the last piece fell into place. “Lady Lucinda Grey, you know that I hold every confidence in your ability to do anything you set your mind to, but this is no ordinary man you’re dealing with.”

  “Oh, Amelia, I’m fully aware of that. But I’ve declined proposals from nearly every eligible bachelor in London. Surely I have one more refusal left in me.” The heat that had flared when the duke traced her bare skin with his fingertips lingered on Lucinda’s body and flared anew with the mere mention of him. Her awareness of just how unordinary the man was could not be denied but she wouldn’t, couldn’t, confess her weakness to Amelia.

  Amelia squeezed Lucinda’s hand. “And the Furies, what do they have to say about your ambitious scheme?”

  “They had their reservations,” Lucinda began, a wry smile curving her lips. “That is, until I told them that the duke is a particular friend of your husband’s.”

  Amelia’s eyes flew wide with alarm. “You didn’t!”

  Lucinda chuckled. “Really, they’re not that terrifying, are they?”

  “You have to ask?”

  Lucinda patted Amelia’s hand and stood, pulling her friend after her. “I’m only having a bit of fun, though Lord Northrop’s friendship with the duke may be of some help to me.”

  Amelia flashed a wicked grin. “Leave it to me,” she said knowingly, then stopped. “But Lucinda, you will take care, won’t you? I’ve never considered fighting a duel, but to save you from the clutches of Iron Will, I would do so without question.”

  Lucinda knew that despite Amelia’s light tone, her friend’s concerns were real. They matched the very ones taking shape in her own heart, and for the first time in her life Lucinda wondered whether she’d taken an irrevocable misstep.

  “I know, and I would do the same for you without hesitation,” she answered. “But first …” She looked toward the counter where the exhausted clerk had arranged what was surely every last red ribbon in the shop’s inventory for their review. “I believe we have need of many red ribbons.”

  How women could spend such a vast amount of time doing what amounted to child’s play was beyond Will. Lady Lucinda and Lady Northop had been occupied in Pomeroy’s for nearly an hour, leaving Will to loiter on New Bond Street like some young buck desperate for attention. “Purveyors of the finest ladies millinery, ribbons, and bows,” Will quoted, reading from the gilded scrollwork on the wooden sign above the shop’s entry.

  He bit out a curse, muttering under his breath.

  If someone had told him a fortnight ago that he would find himself within ten miles of such a ridiculous shop, Will would have laughed. And then, most likely, hit the man for havin
g the temerity to suggest he’d dangle after a woman while she trolled the shops for fripperies.

  But the incident in the park had been too near a thing for Will’s liking. Garenne wouldn’t take the failure lightly. Will’s unorthodox method of thwarting the Frenchman would likely fuel his determination to complete the mission.

  Will planned to keep Lucinda under Young Corinthian guard day and night until the Frenchman was in custody and her safety assured. Which was why he found himself outside Pomeroy’s, wishing to God that Lady Lucinda had opted to spend her time at home in her parlor.

  Still, the crowded avenue offered many shops in which a man of Will’s social and financial position could claim an interest. “Haberdasher, tailor, fanciful snuff boxes,” he recited as he surveyed the shops surrounding Pomeroy’s.

  “Unfortunately,” Will muttered under his breath, “I couldn’t give a bloody damn about any of it.”

  Still, anyone seeing him would have to agree it was plausible that he would be found at one time or another on New Bond Street, a fact that would not be lost on Lady Lucinda.

  Lady Lucinda. The taste of her lingered on his tongue. Her sweet surrender in the park had been as surprising as it was unforgettable. He ached at the memory of her—the lush curves of her body lifting against him, her skin flushed with desire.

  But the park had been the wrong place, the wrong time. Just plain wrong. Will had come to know Garenne’s habits too well to have lingered in the grass with Lucinda. Though the Frenchman wouldn’t allow himself to be drawn out, he was no less dangerous. He would waste no time before attacking again.

  Will had alerted Carmichael and his fellow Corinthians about the foiled attempt, arranging for more men to be assigned to the case. He knew that he did not need to be here, watching her, but he felt a certain sense of duty to the case. She required looking after. And he was the right man for the job.

  A gaggle of fresh-faced young misses approached, giggling and eyeing him with interest as they walked by. Will ignored them and looked past the group to the tall, impeccably dressed gentleman strolling toward him, a few yards behind the chattering girls.